That Evening
by alittlebreathlessness
Summary: The quiet comfort of the Turner family-to-be on the evening hours of the day Patrick and Shelagh met on the right road. A trio of tiny ficlets.
1. Chapter 1

"May I help you with something?"

Patrick spun quickly and his elbow grazed a porcelain figure on a glass shelf, almost knocking it to the floor. Timothy caught it before it fell completely, and with a stern glance toward his father, he put it back carefully before looking at the saleswoman who had spoken to them.

Patrick smiled awkwardly, ignoring the disaster that had just been averted. "No, thank you, we're just meeting my – my – er – we're waiting for someone. I thought we would step inside to be out of the rain." He gestured toward the door, where raindrops could be seen sliding hurriedly down the window. The woman glanced in that direction and gave what Patrick could only assume to be a smile – _sharp_ was the word that came to his mind when he looked at her – and nodded curtly.

"Our dressing rooms are in the back, past the lingerie. There are chairs for husbands. Feel free to wait there."

Patrick felt his face flush and tried not to think about a particular someone browsing in that particular area of this particular store. Or the word _husband_. He placed a hand on Timothy's shoulder. "Thank you. I think we'll wait here."

"As you like." The woman's eyes made a slow, indiscreet descent down his body and Patrick became aware of his outdated clothing, scuffed shoes and wet overcoat. He was glad when she walked away.

A ladies' dress shop was not where Patrick wanted to be. He had never felt comfortable in them; not as a boy accompanying his mother, and not with Timothy's mother. Luckily she would take pity on him and meet him elsewhere if she needed to do some shopping. Fashion was not his forte, and especially not women's fashion. There was something unsettling about the limp shells of dresses hanging without the privilege of a body underneath; it reminded him of cadaver dissection when he was in medical school.

He would have waited for Sister Bernadette – no, Shelagh - in the car, but the streets were filled and there was no place to park close to the door. Regretfully he had realized that she would not be able to see him from the shop where she told him to meet her, and the last thing he wanted was for her to think he had abandoned his promise to give her a lift to an inn until they could properly settle her in a temporary home. After waiting a short while in the car with Timothy, smoking three cigarettes and glancing at his watch every few seconds, he decided to push past his discomfort and go into the store.

The rain was an unexpected annoyance. But between getting a little wet or making her doubtful of his intentions, he preferred the rain. Timothy had brilliantly suggested they drop by their house and get the umbrella from the foyer, so they were not unprepared for the storm that had descended after they all found each other in the mist earlier that day.

Patrick tightened his grip on the umbrella with the thought and tried to distract himself by looking around the shop. After repeating that Timothy not touch anything, his eyes wandered, and his attempt to calm his nerves did just the opposite. This shop and its contents were a striking reminder of how little he knew about women aside from their physical statistics and the way their bodies worked. As a doctor, that was required of him. But seeing the various cuts and colors of dresses and skirts and blouses hanging around the large store unsettled him. He never observed what his patients were wearing, and even today he hadn't noticed the specifics of how Shelagh was dressed until Timothy asked her about it on the drive back into London. That was when she had said meekly that she needed to buy some new clothes after her meeting with Sister Julienne, and she preferred if it were not in Poplar. She knew of a place a bit west –could they wait for her outside Nonnatus and take her there after checking into a hotel?

Waiting in the car in the rain while she was in the convent, Patrick had found it difficult to form any sort of coherent thought. She was inside with Sister Julienne, in regular clothes. Denouncing her vows. She would not be Sister Bernadette anymore, and the way she looked at him on the road told him that he would not be Dr. Turner anymore to her. They would be using first names. First names and other names, hopefully. Dear, darling, sweetheart, love. Patrick's mind jumped from one thing to the next so suddenly: where she would be staying, what she would be doing, how long until he should call on her. He tried to remember his schedule but nothing came to mind; he could make no promises of when he would see her next. All he knew was that at this moment he was not on his rounds, that he was here, waiting for the woman he thought he could never have. His fractured thoughts had been disturbed as usual by Timothy, who tapped on his shoulder and told him that she was coming down the stone stairs toward them. Hardly ten minutes had passed since she had gone in. Before he could get out, her swift step brought her to the car, and he was outside holding the door for her as the rain started to fall in earnest.

He had not remarked on the tears on her cheeks or the redness of her eyes. He prayed that Timothy would not say anything and was glad that he did not. Shelagh had sat a moment without looking at him, staring at her hands with tears silently rolling down her cheeks, her lips folded into each other painfully. With a sinking feeling Patrick wondered if she regretted what she had done, if she was actually less certain than she had claimed an hour ago. When she finally turned to him he expected anything other than the wide smile she shone on him. The tears still lingered in her eyes, but he was certain they were not all tears of sadness. They'd all meandered through the streets of London until she asked to stop and said she would be a while. Timothy suggested they both go home and retrieve the umbrella, and Patrick insisted they tidy the house in case Shelagh were to visit. That took up quite a bit of time before they drove slowly back to the shop and waited in the rain.

"Dad," Timothy now whined from his side, interrupting his careening memory of the hours before. "Dad, can I go sit in one of the chairs that lady was talking about?"

Patrick nodded and watched his son bob between dress displays and disappear in the direction the saleswoman had pointed earlier. Realizing he felt even more awkward without Tim at his side, he decided to follow. Holding the umbrella tight to his chest to avoid knocking anything else off of the shelves, Patrick weaved to the curtained dressing rooms. Timothy was seated already, staring at a feminine magazine on a table as though he was afraid to pick it up. Just as Patrick was about to make a remark about it, one of the shiny white curtains swung aside and revealed the former Sister Bernadette, now the stunning Shelagh, clad in a pinkish skirt suit. Her eyes were wide with surprise when she saw them.

"Oh! Doctor Turn – I mean, Patrick," Shelagh corrected herself, fumbling with several layers of fabric draped over her arms. "Oh dear, is it four already?"

Patrick saw her cheeks flush and was sorry he had embarrassed her. "No, it just… It started raining," he said softly, unable to tear his eyes from hers. He still couldn't believe what had happened today. Was it really only hours ago? When she smiled as though she were thinking the same thing, her features warmed and he smiled back. "But we have an umbrella this time, so no need to get wet."

"That's not what you were wearing earlier," Timothy pointed out from his seat. Patrick made a mental note to reiterate that the boy should stand when a woman entered the room.

Shelagh smiled and looked down at her new outfit, a little embarrassed. "No, it's not." She clearly wanted to say more, but there was either too much or too little to say. Patrick suspected the former and tried to gather his thoughts into comprehensible words. He wanted to tell her how beautiful she was, how happy he was, how much hope he had, but it was too soon and the wrong place.

Thankfully, the saleswoman with the sharp features strolled over. "May I take these up for you?" she asked, gesturing to the pile of clothes in Shelagh's arms. Shelagh's eyes darted toward Patrick's feet and he could see she was uncomfortable discussing this in front of them.

"Come along Tim, we'll wait for Sis – er, we'll wait for Auntie Shelagh up front." With an apologetic grimace he turned from Shelagh and his son followed him back through the store.

"I'll only take these two and the green coat," he heard her small voice say behind him. "And what I'm wearing," she added. He resisted the urge to turn back and look at her again. No, stop. There would be time to look at her later.

Shortly after they reached the front of the store they were joined by the two women, and Shelagh confidently stood next to him in front of the counter. Patrick stood very still, knowing her shoulder was so close to his own. He wanted to turn, to touch her shoulder or her arm, to make sure she was really there with him. But he knew he couldn't and remained frozen. They watched as the woman wrapped and boxed her items, listening to the hum and clink of the rain hit the windows, and when she announced the total, Patrick took his wallet from his pocket.

"No," Shelagh whispered, touching his arm, and for an instant they were Dr. Turner and Sister Bernadette until their eyes met and they were Patrick and Shelagh. "No, thank you. I'll pay. I can pay." She was opening her handbag, extracting an envelope with her name written on it. Patrick noted the unusual spelling of her first name.

"Shelagh," Patrick said, shaking his head, "you don't have to, it's all right… I want to. Save your money." He glanced at the clerk, who was starting to look at them more curiously than before. He became quite self-conscious and turned away from her, leaning on the counter.

Shelagh shook her head. "No. I have the money, Patrick." He could see her stubbornness in her set gaze.

He was torn. His greatest desire was to give her anything she ever wanted, forever, but today all she wanted was this small taste of independence. As much as it would pain him to see her throw away the little bit of money she had – the envelope was by no means full – he decided to agree.

Putting his wallet away, he raised his eyebrows and shook his head. "Then you must at least let me – let us," he tossed his head Timothy's direction, "buy you dinner. All right?"

Shelagh smiled and her eyes – those eyes that could slay him and heal him all in the same glorious moment – were clear and glad. She handed over the money and he took the packages from the counter and handed them to Timothy. He opened the umbrella and turned it toward the door.

"Dad, we can't all fit under that!" Timothy said. "I'm going to get wet."

Patrick shrugged, "You know where the car is, Tim, why don't you run for it? I have to keep Auntie Shelagh dry. We'll be right behind you."

Timothy grinned at Shelagh. "All right! I'll bet I can run so fast I won't even get wet!"

The adults laughed, then watched as he zipped out of the store and down the sidewalk, dodging people and puddles and holding the boxes of Shelagh's clothes above his head. After a few seconds they turned to each other. He was glad she bought a coat and, after discarding the umbrella in his hand, helped her into it now. Gently he held her lapel, unfolding the collar around her neck as he had done with his own coat hours ago.

"Don't want you to catch a chill," he muttered as he felt one of her hands rest on his. Her touch brought him back to life and he picked up the umbrella again.

"Ready?" He asked the woman at his side who was grinning up at him, ready to start this new life. On impulse he held out his hand.

"Ready," she answered, giving him a hand that he took and held in his own as though it were the only thing ever to be held in the world.

"Let's go."


	2. Chapter 2

Timothy threw open the door to the backseat of his father's MG, tossed the boxes in his hands onto the vinyl, and jumped inside. Despite his attempt at dodging the rain, his clothes were freckled with water and his hair felt damp. The drops on his legs made him stick to the seat and he had to peel himself off to sit properly. The sprint down the street and around the corner was indeed quick, but left him out of breath. He panted heavily and listened to the tap dance of the rain on roof of the car.

This had been the strangest day. He didn't know how to feel about it, truthfully, but he felt his emotions teetering on the edge of gladness, so he decided that would be an acceptable emotion to settle upon. Dad certainly did seem glad, even though he was more jittery than normal, tapping his thumbs on the steering wheel as he drove and squinting for a really long time. He had unexpectedly started whistling earlier when they were cleaning up the house while Sister Bernadette was shopping for clothes, and it occurred to Timothy that it had been a very long time since he'd witnessed his father making any sort of musical noise. Since before Mummy died, as a matter of fact. He liked it. Dad used to sing along when he played piano, and even if he was joking he still had a nice voice; today's whistling reminded him of that.

"I'm not sure, Tim," was the thing Dad said more often today than he had ever heard before. "I don't know" was a close second. Timothy thought his questions from the car ride to find Sister Bernadette were perfectly valid: What are we going to do when we find her? Is she still ill? Where will she stay? Why would she want to stop being a nun? And what did that have to do with them anyway? His father had kept his eyes on the road but was clearly distracted. "I'm not sure" was all he could muster in answering most of the questions, and that would have to satisfy the curious boy for the time being.

It was raining hard now. Tim was glad he was already in the car. His breathing was almost back to normal, and the pain in his ribcage had subsided. Dad and Sister Bernadette should be coming around the corner soon. Wait, no, she wasn't Sister Bernadette anymore, was she? It was Shelagh. Timothy scowled; the name did not fit her, but he would put forth an effort to remember it. She had seemed really nervous in the clothes store, and messing up her name could make it worse.

"Shelagh, Shelagh, Shelagh," he repeated lightly in the empty car before remembering what his father had called her earlier. "Auntie Shelagh. Auntie Shelagh."

He continued to chant the name as the rain plunked on the vehicle around him, staring at the spot where he had expected Dad and Auntie Shelagh to emerge several minutes ago. What was taking them so long? Dad said they would be right behind him. A few agitated sighs later Timothy looked up to see them turn the corner under the big umbrella. He was proud that he had suggested retrieving it.

Timothy leaned forward to look past the raindrops clouding the windows. They were walking very slowly, and very closely. There was almost no space between their sides, and Dad's arm was around her shoulder, almost like he was hugging her to keep her out of the rain. That must be it, Tim thought with an annoyed sigh. He was trying to keep her out of the rain. Dad wasn't the most dashing man, and he would probably need help seeing what Timothy could see. Sister Bernadette – no, Shelagh, Auntie Shelagh – she liked him. Tim saw it all the time but Dad was too absentminded to see it, he was sure. They would definitely need some help.

On second thought, though, it was interesting to see the way they were walking now, their steps perfectly in sync, and they both smiled really, really wide. And Shelagh kept looking up at Dad like he was saying something funny. That was improbable, but interesting nonetheless. Timothy examined the look on his father's face, unable to remember a smile like that which had not seemed forced or pasted on. He was really, truly smiling, almost laughing, even though it was raining and cold and blowing. Interesting.

When they reached the car the door was held open for Shelagh and Tim heard them laugh together as she settled into the front seat. Dad scampered around the front and slid in behind the wheel, stowing the sopping umbrella in the back next to Timothy's feet.

"We saw you run, Timothy," Shelagh cooed. She did have a nice voice, really kind and almost musical. "You were very fast, you probably didn't get wet at all."

Timothy shrugged. "I got a little wet. What took you so long? I've been here for ages."

The adults exchanged a glance and both laughed in a way that told Tim they'd done something stupid.

Shelagh turned her head toward the back. "I stumbled in my new shoes. It was silly of me, I should have been more careful."

"Did you fall down?"

Shelagh's face turned a funny shade of pink. "Yes. Well, almost. Your father caught me." The way her eyes met Dad's made Timothy feel like he should be anywhere in the world but that car.

"Are you sure you're all right?" Dad asked in that doctor-like way, dipping his forehead closer to Shelagh.

She let out a breath of laughter. "I'm perfectly fine. My pride is hurt, that's all."

"You shouldn't have worn those shoes so early. You're not used to them."

There was an awkward silence as Shelagh turned back to the front and smiled in an embarrassed way. Timothy knew how that was. Dad was always telling him what he _should_ do and what he _should not_ have done. It was an annoying habit, made even more annoying by the fact that he was almost always right. Timothy had learned early not to take it personally, but Shelagh wasn't used to being told what she should do. The word hung in the air and Timothy quickly tried to talk over it.

"They're really nice shoes, though. You look really nice, Auntie Shelagh," he said, leaning both elbows on the back of the seats in front of him.

When she turned and smiled at him Timothy felt a warmth wash over him that he always felt when she talked to him. She didn't talk to him like most adults, and maybe that was because she was always around babies, or was closer to children's heights than most adults. But then again, he had seen her talking to other kids – like Jack or Gary – and it hadn't seemed the same. She was always interested in Timothy and what he was up to. Once they had talked for almost twenty minutes about insects while he waited for Dad outside the clinic, and it was brilliant. Nobody ever talked to him about things and actually cared like Sister Bernadette.

"Thank you, Timothy," she smiled. He could see why Dad liked her. She had great eyes, and a really nice smile.

His father shifted in his seat. "Tim's right, you do look…" he began, then twitched and looked at the rain outside. "You look very nice." They did that thing with their eyes again, where they looked at each other and Timothy felt like he wasn't even there, even though he was literally touching their shoulders.

"I'm starving, can we eat now?" He hated the way the words came out and how they made him sound like a baby. But the nervousness of the adults had rubbed off on him and he truly was hungry.

Dad shook his head. "Not quite yet. We have to find She – Auntie Shelagh a place to stay tonight." He started the car and began to pull into the street.

Timothy was confused. "Why can't she stay with us? Why can't you stay with us?" he repeated, and he saw that same deep pink fill her features as he looked at the side of her head from the backseat.

She smiled and looked at him. "No, I'm afraid I can't –"

"Oh please? We'll have a good time, I promise. You can even sleep in my room if you like, I'll stay with Dad or downstairs. We can look at television – you didn't have one at Nonnatus house, we can watch all sorts of things, whatever you want to!"

"Thank you, Timothy, but no. I really need to find my own place to stay." She had that tone that adults had when they demanded the subject be dropped. Except with her it was kinder and gentler than other people.

The next hour went by slowly and Timothy became increasingly irritable. The first hotel they tried was full up, and when they went to the second there was an another awkward exchange between Dad and Shelagh when the man at the desk required payment. Dad had insisted this time, however, and though she seemed kind of sad she also looked relieved when he handed over the money for one night's stay in a room with a single bed and bath and a telephone.

"Tim," Dad murmured in the lobby with a crinkled forehead and frowning eyebrows. "Timothy, I don't want to explain this now – I'll tell you why later – but I need you to help Auntie Shelagh upstairs with her things while I wait here. Can you do that?"

Timothy shrugged and nodded. He was already holding her packages from earlier. Why should he care if Dad wanted to stay in the lobby? he asked himself when they were outside her designated room and she unlocked the door. He didn't mind helping, especially if it meant they would get to eat sooner. He was starting to feel his stomach growl from hunger.

Dad let him pick where to eat once they got back in the car, and Shelagh acted genuinely pleased when he chose the place with his favorite fish and chips. She preferred it without vinegar, just like him, and that made Timothy feel good. He was glad that the food was there to distract them. The conversation left much to be desired from his point of view. Dad had said at least twice that day to cut down on the questions, which was particularly unfortunate because all he had in his mind were questions and questions and questions. He made a game of stopping them with chips every time he wanted to ask one, and soon his plate was empty and the strained small talk between Dad and Shelagh fizzled into happy silence.

Grown ups were funny sometimes. Even Timothy could see how much they liked each other, and he was not at all interested in that sort of thing. He could see everything they did, even though they clearly thought he didn't. He saw when Dad waited for Shelagh to sit before choosing the chair next to her, saw him touch her shoulder when he took her coat and the way her head turned toward his hand. Timothy saw his father tuck his elbows in so he didn't invade her space, then settle and move them slightly closer. He watched them toss sideways glances to each other as they pretended to focus on him, and he caught the shy smiles between them as well. Dad framed his questions in interesting ways, too, speaking slower than normal, clearly choosing the right words like he had to make each one perfect. If he had been writing an essay about them for school, Timothy could have written an entire paragraph on the way Shelagh turned her whole body and not just her head to listen when Dad talked, and the way her eyes would wander all over his face instead of just staying on his eyes. Something strange was happening before him, and Timothy was caught between feeling out of place and feeling as though this was the most fascinating display he had ever witnessed. Maybe Dad didn't need as much help with Shelagh as he had thought. Maybe the way he talked and the way he looked were just what Shelagh liked about him, even if he was sometimes smug or sloppy.

"Can we get dessert? I'm still hungry," he pleaded during a lull in the conversation.

Shelagh looked at Dad. "It's up to you," he said to her.

"No, I think I'm quite finished," she said, shaking her head. "But please don't let that stop you."

Timothy felt himself being examined by his father and tried to look as hungry as possible. He knew the soft spot the doctor had for fried bread, and was just about to suggest it when his father narrowed his eyes and shook his head.

"No, I think we'd better not. It's getting late. Tim should be in bed soon."

"But it's half term!"

"Timothy." Dad said his name in the way that told him to be quiet. His features softened when he saw his son's disappointment and quickly added, "Next time, I promise."

It was dark outside but still raining. Dad tried to hold his coat over Shelagh's head but it seemed quicker to let her walk and duck in to the car like Timothy had done. When they were all settled the car was driven back toward the hotel where Shelagh was staying that night. The car was parked while Shelagh asked Timothy what his plans were for the rest of his break from school, and he yawned through his list of models and cricket and library visits. It was once again frustrating to realize how right Dad was: it was past his usual bedtime and the day had exhausted him. When the adults turned to each other and began to murmur inaudibly Timothy felt his eyelids droop and his head lean on the back of the seat. With his eyes closed he heard bits of what they were saying – grown ups always said the important things when they thought children weren't listening – though he didn't understand much of it. His ears perked up when he heard Dad mention his name.

"He's such a good boy, Patrick. I'm very fond of him," Shelagh said with a sigh.

"He's fond of you, too. And I'm so glad," Dad said in a higher voice than normal. The sound of fabric on vinyl indicated a shift in positions, and Timothy heard a small sigh. "I'm so glad about everything that's happened today, Shelagh."

There was a pause, and through the hum and sputter of the rain Timothy had to strain to hear her tiny voice.

"So am I," she finally said.

Eyes barely opened, Timothy could see through his eyelashes that Dad had taken one of Shelagh's hands in his and now covered it with his other. They were both looking at their hands, and though Timothy could not understand why fingers and knuckles were so fascinating, he felt like this was the closest they had ever been. It made him a bit queasy and he shut his eyes again. They sat like this for a long time, the three of them silent beneath the song of raindrops and darkness.

It was Shelagh who broke the silence first. "Tomorrow I'll try to check into a boarding house. I can't stay here more than one night. It's quite extravagant."

"I don't know what my schedule is tomorrow," Dad sighed, "but I can change it. I can go with you. If you like."

"No, that's quite all right," Shelagh said. "I need to start doing things on my own."

Another pause, but Timothy could feel the tension in this one.

"Shelagh," Dad whispered deeply. "Shelagh you don't have to do things on your own. You know that, don't you? Timothy and I – we want to – we'd like to -" another discontented sigh and the car jiggled a bit; Timothy flickered his eyelids and saw that his father was facing forward, Shelagh staring at his profile. "Tim and I want to spend time with you. I want to spend time with you. As much as possible," he murmured, taking her hand again.

Shelagh was smiling now, and even in the darkness Timothy detected the darkening of her cheeks and a sparkle of tears in her eyes as she looked at their hands. "Yes. And I would quite like to spend time with you, too. Both of you. But I need to do some things on my own."

Dad nodded and his thumb stroked her knuckles. Then he did something that surprised Timothy. He leaned in toward Shelagh – Shelagh, who used to be Sister Bernadette, a nun – and he kissed the back of her hand.

"May I phone you tonight?"

Shelagh looked up and nodded, then frowned. "Oh, but I don't know the number."

Dad's face fell, then he shook his head. "I'll call the operator. They'll direct me. So I'll call in," he checked his watch, "in twenty-six minutes? Tim will be in bed by then, and we can talk…"

Shelagh laughed quietly. "I don't know what else we have to talk about, Patrick. I feel we've done nothing but talk all day, more than ever before."

"I'd like nothing more than to talk to you forever," Dad muttered. It was a very un-Dadlike thing to say, and Timothy almost snorted from the silliness of the phrase. Shelagh sure made him act strange.

"It's so late, and there is so much to do tomorrow. I should go in." Shelagh shifted and took back her hand with a smile.

Disappointment filled the air as Dad said, "Yes, all right. May I walk you…?"

"Will you walk me to the door?" Shelagh asked over top of his words.

The car rocked when Dad got out and ran to her side, and they both closed their doors gently to keep from waking the boy they thought was asleep. The rain had softened, and he could hear their voices laughing a bit when Dad opened the umbrella. Then there was the distinct word – "Wait" – in Shelagh's voice before the door of the back seat opened and the car swayed again under someone's weight.

Timothy kept his eyes closed to continue his act of being asleep, though he was keen to know why the door had opened. When a hand brushed his ear and fingers ran through his hair he was unable to keep his eyes closed, remembering how someone else used to do that exact same thing when she put him to bed. In blurry darkness he saw Shelagh, close enough that he could see her clear eyes and her smile.

"Good night, Timothy," she whispered in that songlike voice that made him smile right back at her. "See you tomorrow."

As her hand slid from his face Timothy let his eyelids fall in contentment and felt the darkness and rainfall lull him into happy sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

"It's still all right if I phone you? You're not too tired?"

Shelagh heard the eagerness in Patrick's voice as they stood under the umbrella outside the front entrance of the hotel. She smiled. He took her hand again – how right it felt to be able to give it to him – and she could see so much in his eyes. All the sounds of the rain and the night and the streets became a song, a hymn that she felt he was singing to her, for her, just in the way he looked at her.

"I am tired, but please still call," she said. "Good night, Patrick. And thank you for… for all your help today." It wasn't the right thing to say. She wanted to tell him so much more, pour her thanks on him and stare into his eyes for as long as she could, but it was time to say goodbye. For now.

"Good night, Shelagh." There was that look again – the same one she probably had on her own face – of the inability to say everything that wanted to be said.

With much self-control she took her hand back and walked through the door and into the brightly lit lobby. She could not resist one final look in Patrick's direction, and the swoop of his coat as he descended the stairs to the street made her heart lurch in its finality of the evening. But, no, they would speak in less than twenty minutes when he called her at eleven o'clock. The thought was enough to spring her into motion, and after retrieving her key from the desk she climbed the stairs and let herself into the small room. The bed looked firm and the curtains were drawn, and she saw the boxes and suitcase she and Timothy had brought up earlier that evening. Her eyes soon found the one thing she desired: the telephone. It was quite a luxury to have a telephone in the room itself, and perhaps that was why it was so expensive for a single night. How generous of Patrick to pay for her night's stay here, she thought as she shed her coat and laid it over the chair that held her suitcase. It would be difficult to find more permanent housing that boasted such an amenity, but she would try. She glanced at the clock. 15 minutes. Enough time to wash her face and sit for a bit.

Shelagh avoided looking in the small round mirror in the washroom. It was a habit that had been formed many years ago, to uphold her denunciation of vanity. In the mornings she would use the mirror to focus only on the wimple and the position of her habit to be sure it laid properly. She rarely looked into her own eyes. In recent months it was particularly painful to meet her reflection, but her time in the sanitorium brought a clarity that gave her strength to look at herself as a woman again, and not only as a vessel for God's work.

Now she forced herself to look into the glass. It was old, dusty, scratched and spotted, but even in the dim light it could not hide the glow that she saw in herself. Her eyes were lively, not tired, her cheeks rosy and healthy. Her hair was still put up tightly as it had been when she had taken the wrong bus this morning. How foolish she had been… but what a miraculous turn of events when she saw Patrick and Timothy in the car. God had surely been smiling on her then, on all of them. Staring into her own eyes in the mirror, she tried to see what Patrick had seen when he ran to her, when he touched her forehead – just the memory of that first touch warmed her shoulders and brought more color to her cheeks – and she thought she detected a glimmer of the woman he was unearthing inside her. With a smile she regarded her features and undressed, slipping into the old nightgown from her suitcase that had not needed to be replaced. She looked like the child she had been a decade ago, small and hidden beneath white cotton fabric. Perhaps a new nightdress would be in order after all. When she unpinned her hair it curled at her shoulders and she looked younger still. In the back of her mind she made a note to ask the nurses about the proper application of makeup one day.

That thought was slightly painful. How would the midwives accept her now? She was not their equal or superior anymore; she was simply another woman on the streets of London. Shelagh hoped one day she could call them friends, but at this moment facing her former colleagues seemed a terrifying mountain to climb.

It would be easier to face with Patrick, she thought, returning to the room and sitting in the chair next to the telephone. As she listened to the rain continue to fall in the night, she thought of him. It was a habit she had fallen into during her recovery, but only in the last few weeks had become comfortable giving in to it. Today had fed all of her hopes like oxygen to a burning fire. Everything that had happened today, even the heartache, had been right because he was waiting for her. Shelagh tried not to imagine too far into the future – the start they'd made today was more than what she could ever wish for – but when she did he was always beside her, just as he was today. There were little moments of the day that struck her now, like the way he kept turning to her in the car on the drive back to Poplar, clearly grasping for words but unable to speak; she had felt the same way, and Timothy had filled the silence. Then there was their reunion after her meeting with Sister Julienne and the kind way he had let her cry until she was ready to move on. The rest of the afternoon was now a blur, and she pushed past the uncomfortable memory of trying on clothes she knew nothing about in that wretched store, remembering instead Patrick and Timothy's faces when she emerged. It had only been a couple of hours but felt an eternity, and their presence was a pleasant surprise, though it had left her flustered. Shelagh sighed at the thought of her ridiculous new shoes and her inevitable stumble on the pavement. But then there was the feel of Patrick's hand on her waist and the way he stopped all her motion, kept her safe from falling. She closed her eyes. She'd never felt anything like the surge that ran through her body at his touch, even when he had touched her when it was forbidden. Today, though, he had every right to touch her, to help her right herself on the street and slide his arm to her shoulder under the umbrella. His eyes had asked permission and she had given it fully, wanting more but willing to wait.

A glance at the tiny table clock told Shelagh she still had eight minutes until Patrick's call. She eagerly lifted the receiver and listened to the tone to be sure it was in working order.

"Front desk," announced a voice in her ear and she stuttered to tell the faceless person that she did not need anything and hung up.

To soothe her nerves she settled again on the events of the day, moving on to Timothy's favorite chips place. The food had been adequate, far below the standard Mrs. B set but quite an indulgence after the flavorless cuisine of the sanitorium. Timothy was clearly trying to avoid making her nervous, so she set herself to asking unusually neutral questions until Patrick began to slowly talk about his most recent case in words that seemed carefully chosen. They were all stumbling about the events of the day like sheep in a muddy pasture, but just being near them made Shelagh confident. They didn't say much, though, and she felt more was communicated in the way Patrick touched her elbow with his than in any of the words he spoke.

One more minute until his call. Shelagh's stomach flipped a bit in anticipation, though somewhere in the back of her mind a small bespectacled nun she used to know reminded her of the doctor's persistent tardiness.

At eleven o'clock she placed her hand on the phone, ready for its alarm, and waited. Then she waited. At five past eleven she took her hand back into her lap, fingered the embroidery on her night gown, and tried not to be disappointed. When ten more minutes passed she wondered if he had been unable to find her number or had called the wrong hotel. The rain taunted her outside, whispering that she should have been the one to phone Patrick; she did know his number, out of the necessity of being a midwife. She scolded herself for not thinking of this sooner and almost placed the call to his home, but decided against it.

Twenty more minutes passed as slowly as she had ever experienced. Disappointment was soon replaced with a small, burrowing fear. What could have happened? Had something delayed them on their drive home? What if he had gone to bed and forgotten to ring her? And, most terrifying of all: What if he had changed his mind and didn't want to talk to her after all? She frowned, scolding herself for questioning his certainty. No, there was a reason for him not calling. And they would find each other tomorrow, somehow or another. Best to give up this useless waiting and go to bed, she told herself, though a knot was beginning to tie itself around the back of her throat. Shelagh tried to focus on the lovely day as she stood and walked closer to the bed, but when the telephone let out a piercing ring she lunged toward it eagerly.

"Hello?" she called with the knot still in her throat, blinking back the tears that were springing to her eyes without her permission.

"Shelagh!" Patrick's voice was loud, urgent, upset. "Shelagh I'm so sorry, I couldn't call. Shelagh, I'm so, so sorry. Please forgive me."

She was unable to breathe from conflicting emotions, and the knot tightened and burned when she tried to speak. "Patrick," was all she could say. The clock read almost midnight.

"When we got home the phone was ringing and I thought it was you," he began, "but it was Nurse Lee, at Nonnatus. She said Chummy Noakes had been taken to the London this afternoon and was in theater for hours. Still is. She went into labor earlier today but there was a placental abruption. They took her straight away."

"Oh, no!" Shelagh cried, terrified for the woman she held close to her heart.

Patrick sighed, and she could clearly visualize his closed eyes and concerned brow, and the way he held his hand over his lip when he was scared. "She's lost a lot of blood… They said I didn't need to be there but that I should know, as her GP."

Shelagh was silent for a while. How could she have questioned Patrick just a few minutes ago? And now poor Chummy was suffering. "What about the baby?" she asked, afraid of the answer.

"A boy. He's doing fine. She's lost a lot of blood," he said once more. "I'm so sorry I didn't phone you. I've been staring at my watch the entire time I was talking to Nurse Lee. I'm sure you thought –"

"No, Patrick, don't. I was worried, that's all." _Quite the understatement_, she whispered in her head. "I'm glad you're all right. I'm glad you called."

Patrick's breathy laugh was static in her ear. "I had to call the hotel and beg the desk clerk to let me talk to you. But then I didn't know your room number. It took quite a bit of coaxing to get him to give you up." Patrick laughed in earnest now, and Shelagh smiled, feeling their mutual fear and nervousness fade for the moment. "Lucky for me there is only one Shelagh staying there. What is your last name, Shelagh?"

Surprise overtook her and she laughed. How had she not told him her last name? It must have been difficult to convince the hotel clerk based only on a first name. "Mannion," she told him. "It's Shelagh Mannion." Funny, she thought to herself, it had been years since she'd said it aloud. It had been years since it had applied to her, though.

"Shelagh Mannion," Patrick repeated, and she knew from the tone of his voice that he was smiling again. She wondered fleetingly if he was imagining giving her a different surname, and quickly banished the thought from her mind with embarrassment.

"I hope Chummy will be all right," she said to cover her thoughts. "I'm so worried, Patrick. If she's in theater now, after all this time…"

"Yes, I know…"

They sat a long time in silence, just listening to the other breathing. Silence was the song of their relationship, and it felt comfortable just knowing he was sitting somewhere, holding a telephone that tied them together. The last time they had talked like this was this morning. How had so much happened in so little time? Leaving the sanitorium, catching the wrong bus, abandoning it and wandering the streets… Then seeing Patrick like a dream. How had he found her? How had he _known_? She closed her eyes now at the memory of his hand on her forehead, his coat on her shoulders, the way his eyes drank her in with all the certainty in the world. Timothy had asked a hundred questions in the car, and each one was struck down by his father, whose fingers gripped the steering column fiercely every time he turned to look at her, which was often. Then there was the meeting at Nonnatus with Sister Julienne, the pain she saw in her sister's eyes and the lump in her own throat that she swallowed hard to stop herself from bursting into tears. But there was no loss of certainty as she left the building and with each step down the stone stairs toward the waiting Patrick and Timothy, she felt the weight of loss being replaced with enormous gratitude for all she had gained from her life there. When he held the car door open for her, tears still stained her face, but her heart was no longer heavy. And Timothy had been waiting for them.

"Did Timothy get to bed all right?" She asked quietly, hearing Patrick's gentle laughter in response.

"It was difficult to make him go while I was on the phone, so he's only just now gone up. He was so tired. But he was wide awake when I got back to the car after I left you."

"Asking a hundred questions, no doubt."

"Yes," he laughed again, and Shelagh found that she loved the sound of his voice when he was smiling. "I don't know if we will ever be able to satisfy his curiosity. Shelagh?"

"Yes?"

"I think he's very happy about... About everything. About today. It might be too early to tell, but I think he's truly, truly happy. He missed you, more than I knew, more than..." Shelagh could sense him grasping for the right words again, but in his silence she knew what he was saying. She had missed his son, too, and she had missed the quiet friendship of the doctor who wrote to her and to whom she could not answer for fear that her longing would be too easily detected on the pages of paper. She had missed him, and he had missed her, and tonight the only way they could tell each other was to refrain from speaking.

"Perhaps I will be able to answer some of his questions tomorrow, or..." Shelagh smiled, relieving him from the silence.

"You mean today," Patrick corrected her, and when she looked at the clock she found he was right. A new day. So many changes, so many possibilities. She pondered this until he spoke. "Is it still raining there?" Patrick asked quietly.

"Of course it is," she giggled, surprising herself with her own girlish voice, "you're hardly across town, so I imagine it's raining there, too."

Patrick chuckled. "I'm sorry, I didn't know what to say. I asked to ring you and now I don't know what to talk about. I just… I just wanted to hear your voice, to know you're there. That you're safe."

Shelagh closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "I'm safe, Patrick. And I'm here."

"I'm here, too." His voice was quiet, but she could hear the emotion even through the fuzzy receiver.

"Then we've made a start," she smiled, knowing he would hear her simple words and remember.

"May I see you tomorrow?"

"Yes," she immediately said, only now realizing how desperate she was to see him. A full day in his company had made her greedy.

"It might be late, with my rounds, and I'm not sure how late, is that still all ri–"

"Yes."

"You'll have to phone around to find me, do you have the num-"

"Yes."

His laugh warmed her heart and caused her to grin, pressing the receiver firmly to her cheek. "Good night, then, Shelagh. See you tomorrow."

"Good night, Patrick." And with a reluctance she had never before experienced, Shelagh cradled the telephone, said her evening prayers, climbed into the hard bed, and dreamt of misty roads and sunshine and children's laughter and a pair of hands holding her own and never letting go.


End file.
